


If You Touch Me You'll Understand What Happiness Is

by locketofyourhair



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ace Omens Discord Challenge, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Changing Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Memory Alteration, fast and loose with angelic powers, many many love confessions, through time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 07:03:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21406150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locketofyourhair/pseuds/locketofyourhair
Summary: Crawly’s eyes go blank, and Aziraphale cannot help but pluck the memory away from him, because they cannot meet as enemies if Crawly truly thinks he can love. That cannot be borne. “You didn’t say that. You cannot love. That was taken from you, when you Fell,” he says softly. “You merely wish you could, dear boy.”“No,” Crawly murmurs. “I do. She didn’t take that. Wish She did, less scary if She did.”Or: Crowley won't stop confessing his love to Aziraphale, and it's simply too dangerous for them both to remember.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 322
Collections: Ace Omens Discord Prompt Challenges, Forgotten Love





	If You Touch Me You'll Understand What Happiness Is

**Author's Note:**

> This is my (very late) entry into the Ace Omens discord challenge from October, memory alteration! Not truly beta'ed, but I wanted to put this out into the world. I am very much American, so please forgive the odd idioms. 
> 
> Title from "Memory" from _Cats_, because I saw the opportunity and I took it.

It happens first when they’re facing the Ark, when Crawly is looking at him with horror and more than a little disgust. Aziraphale can’t be sure if the disgust is directed at him specifically, though he could disagree. He can hear the children giggling like a condemnation, and if he’s absolutely honest with himself, he’s more than a little horrified with himself and absolutely appalled at the Almighty. 

Drowning all of this region because She’s not happy, honestly. 

Crawly is still staring, and there is such disapproval in his eyes that Aziraphale rather wishes he were the one who could turn into a snake, if only so he can squirm away from all of this. “I honestly thought you were better than that,” he says, finally. “You gave them your sword.”

Aziraphale winces. “Momentary lapse in judgement, and you saw how well it went for the lion.”

“That lion that would have eaten them.” Crawly waves his hand, because that isn’t important, and Aziraphale supposes that he has a point. “You helped them, and you’re just going to let this happen?”

Aziraphale stares, because it’s one thing to bend the truth to God and another to outright Defy. “I’m not Fallen, Crawly. I cannot Disobey.”

“I thought you were different,” Crawly says, and he sounds strangely gutted, his eyes entirely yellow in that moment. The rain has flattened his lovely curls. “I thought... I love you, and you’re just the same as the rest.”

And Aziraphale feels as if Crawly is the one that’s wielding the flaming sword and he’s just landed a mortal blow, cut into the lungs so Aziraphale would discorporate from drowning in his own blood. The snap is reflex, a burst of heavenly energy because how does one handle disappointing a demon that thinks he can _love_?

Crawly’s eyes go blank, and Aziraphale cannot help but pluck the memory away from him, because they cannot meet as enemies if Crawly truly thinks he can love. That cannot be borne. “You didn’t say that. You cannot love. That was taken from you, when you Fell,” he says softly. “You merely wish you could, dear boy.”

“No,” Crawly murmurs. “I do. She didn’t take that. Wish She did, less scary if She did.”

“What would they do to you, if you really did love, like an angel or even a human?”

“Destroy me.” Crawly’s voice is flat, and Aziraphale is so glad that the humans are running from the storm. He doesn’t know if he has enough power to hold a demon like this and keep humans from noticing. “Torture me for a thousand years and drip Holy Water on what was left. Selaphiel can still love, and they’ve only half finished the poor bastard.”

Aziraphale presses a hand to his mouth, and he will not let Crawly remember. He cannot. “You won’t remember this. You never said that. You don’t love me. I’m not worthy of you loving me, and you know it. I’m letting this happen.” 

Even in this state, Crawly says nothing, and it is the biggest censure of all. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale murmurs, and he snaps his fingers again. He watches Crawly blink, come back to himself, and then - like the coward he is - Aziraphale flees.

Later, when he miracles a dove onto the bow of the ship, he realizes that there are a fair bit more children aboard than he remembers being in Noah’s family. He also recognises the red-bellied snake dosing on sun-warmed wood.

* * *

The second time is a mercy, because he can feel how heartbroken Crawly - _Crowley_ \- is, as they walk away from the execution site. He’s quiet, one hand pressed into the crook of Aziraphale’s arm in deference to his chosen presentation. He can feel Crowley’s magic keeping them from being noticed, but if Crowley forgets, well. Aziraphale didn’t know the man, and he’s still shaken himself. 

“They’re so creative, and that’s what they do with it,” he laments, and Crowley’s response is a dark laugh, because it’s a familiar refrain. After nearly four millennia, he knows that Crowley has seen just as much pain and joy from humanity as he has. 

Crowley sighs. “It’s not like our Home Offices didn’t help that one along,” he murmurs, and he sounds so old, like suddenly time has meaning to them. “To make it worse than it had to be, so humanity Remembers.”

He leads them into an inn, and Aziraphale lets Crowley order their wine. The owners clearly know him, offer sad smiles and don’t take as much of his miracled coin as they should. He’s aware that the wife murmurs into Crowley’s ear and pats his hand before she goes off to other patrons. 

“They know you here, then?”

“I’ve been in the area, off and on. They think I was a follower of the accused.” Crowley downs his first glass. “Easier to let humans make their own assumptions than remember a lie.”

Aziraphale hums softly, and they stay quiet, staring into their drinks. Crowley outpaces him easily, but then Aziraphale had been supposed to pop in for a quick blessing and avoid the execution. The Jesus business was far above his station. It was Gabriel’s pet project. He’d have to leave the area soon, as it were, lest Gabriel find him sharing a drink with the enemy. 

He stares into his wine as the inn grows quiet around them. He’s aware that their wine keeps refilling and Crowley is drinking more and more heavily, that someone should have checked on them to see if they’d like a meal. The sky is dark outside. 

It’s only when Crowley speaks again that Aziraphale realizes that the world isn’t just quiet around them but entirely _stopped_. “I know She has to test them, but to offer Her child to them...” Crowley murmurs, and Aziraphale worries that Crowley is too drunk to truly control his powers, that perhaps he’s stopped time by accident rather than by design. 

“We aren’t supposed to question the plans, you know,” Aziraphale murmurs, but in this dark little pocket of time, he can sound as unhappy about it as he feels. 

Really, if One had a child They intended to be executed, there were easier ways. A proper hanging, for instance. Decapitation. Aziraphale circles back to the suffering, and he finds that he cannot forget it. 

He feels like he is coming very close to Questioning, which is a short step to Rebelling. And then Falling. 

“I’m allowed,” Crowley sneers. “That’s why I’m here. Why she made me, if I was supposed to Fall.” He’s well and truly drunk, scarf fallen away from his hair. “Full of questions, me.”

Aziraphale miracles the wine away from their tables. “Perhaps you should sober up, then, my dear.”

“Why? You don’t question, party line and all that.” Crowley takes Aziraphale’s cup from his hands and drains it. “You don’t wonder why suffering is so important to all Her creations? You know--lions? When the new males come in? Slaughter all the baby lions. Can’t tell me that doesn’t make the lionesses suffer.”

Aziraphale says nothing, just grimaces and takes back his wine. The glass is empty. 

“It feels like all they do is suffer, Aziraphale. Even we suffer.” The wine bottle is back at their table, and Crowley pours himself another full mug. “Here I am, doing my job, tempting a man that I know will rebuff me because that’s the Plan, and then you show up again. I was expecting Gabe, the wanker. I don’t mind facing off with him because he’s not _you_.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I’m sorry?” That anyone would seek Gabriel’s company rather than his seems rather offensive. “You really should sober up.”

“Not like that, of course I’d rather see you.” Crowley motions with his wine. “I think about you all the time, you know, how much I’d like to see you, and then I think about how much I shouldn’t be thinking about you. I’d rather not be tortured to destruction, if it’s all the very same to you, which I suspect it is.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes widen, because he knows where this rant will end, rather like a trainwreck over a millennia before he even knows what a train is.

“I mean, I hope it is. Can you imagine the shit we’d get from our offices if we both fell in love with each other? Fuck, that would be a shit show.” Crowley slams his mug down. “You know, I’ve tried very hard not to be--” And then he stops, because his sozzled brain has finally, finally caught up with his tongue. 

But it’s too late, because Aziraphale heard it and Crowley knows he says it. 

“I don’t suppose you could forget that,” Crowley says slowly. “Just, forget it and leave it out of the reports?”

Aziraphale sighs. “I’m afraid I can’t forget, no.” He looks into his empty wineglass. “Though, I could make you forget, if you’d like.”

Crowley blinks, leaning close. “Make me forget? That I love you?”

He almost confesses, that no, he can’t make him forget that he loves, but then Aziraphale thinks it over. “I don’t know, actually. I can take a memory, but I’ve never tried to take an emotion. Would you like me to?”

The inn is so still that he can hear Crowley’s clothing as he shifts, concentrating as he makes himself sober. He pushes his wine away, and he looks terribly grim. 

“Demons shouldn’t love, angel. You don’t know what they’d do to me if they knew.” He puts one hand over Aziraphale’s, and Aziraphale wants to turn his palm to meet Crowley’s, to lace their fingers together. It’s a foolish impulse. “And I don’t know that they’d do to you,” he rolls his eyes to the ceiling, “if they knew how you could make a demon feel love.”

“I didn’t mean to--”

“I know, sweetheart,” Crowley murmurs, and his smile is so sad. “You’re a company man.” 

Then he takes another drink, throat working. “Take it, all of it. As much as you can.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, because it’s one thing to offer to take love and another thing to try it. “I suspect this will hurt.”

Crowley’s laugh is harsh. “A lot of things hurt.” 

He doesn’t wait then, plunging a hand into the aura of Crowley’s power. Crowley pitches forward with a cry, but Aziraphale closes his eyes and tries to concentrate, tries to feel through the stinging heat of Crowley’s power to the emotional core of him. His power brushes the tendrils of Crowley’s love, and it’s a heady thing, to brush against something so pure and entirely focused on him. 

For a moment, he wishes this weren’t necessary. Holding Crowley’s love is like holding a moth. In the open, it would seem powerful and completely fearless, but in his hand, delicate and easily crushed. 

And Aziraphale knows he could just crush it, but he doesn’t know what it would do to the demon who stowed children away in the Ark as a means to defy Heaven. 

He tries to wrap his power around it, to absorb it into himself, but Crowley’s power lashes out, the heat and flame ripping into him. Aziraphale tries to push through Crowley’s own defenses, watching as holy light spills into Crowley. His skin seems to crackle with their energy, and it’s only when infernal light begins to drown out the holy that Aziraphale realizes that his choices truly are to crush Crowley’s love or to leave well enough be. 

He looks at Crowley’s face, the way his lips are pulled back from his teeth in a snarl. His cheeks are wet, and Aziraphale wants to brush them away, to soothe Crowley’s pain over this and the pain of losing his friend today. 

Aziraphale withdraws his power. 

“I don’t want to kill you, Crowley,” he says, and it’s nearly a lie. He brushes a hand over Crowley’s sweaty brow. “I’ll take this memory then.”

Crowley grunts, nods. He can’t speak yet, one hand clutched over his heart as if Aziraphale had actually tried to pluck that from his chest. 

“This at least won’t hurt, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, and he soothes this whole evening away.

* * *

It doesn’t happen in Rome. Crowley in Rome smiles at him, but there’s something bitter in him now that makes Aziraphale ache. If he concentrates, he can pick Crowley’s love out from everyone else around them. 

But Crowley looks at him across a plate of oysters, and Aziraphale braces for him to say it, puts his (frankly terrible) drink on the table and has the sense to close his eyes. He can feel the fondness rolling off Crowley. Even with the glasses, he knows Crowley looks at him so softly that - if he weren’t an angel himself - he’d think Crowley is the angel between them. A human would probably suspect it, if they understood the divide between angels and the Fallen. 

Instead, Crowley sighs and pushes the plate closer to Aziraphale. “They’re all right, ‘suppose,” he murmurs, and he won’t look at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale takes another oyster, unsurprised that Crowley hasn’t taken to them. On second thought, if one is unused to eating, oysters are a bit of an advanced course. He could have started on a nice bit of oven-warm bread. Next time, of course. 

(That there shouldn’t be a next time doesn’t occur to Aziraphale for quite some time.)

“Your temptations need work,” Crowley says, and it isn’t “I love you” but there is something in the inflection that makes Aziraphale twitch just the same, as if he should take this memory anyway. 

Particularly the way he feels his face flush that has nothing to do with the alcohol in his cup and everything to the shy half-smile on Crowley’s lips.

* * *

In Camelot, it’s honestly a shock. 

He and Crowley leave the battlefield after their spat - he reports his failure and hears rumor that she rides with her ‘lads’ to a nearby village to give them a fright - and Aziraphale expects that to be it. What happens instead is that a dark lady enters the court of Arthur during a dazzling party, everyone wearing their very finest to celebrate Arthur’s birthday. The king and queen look beautiful, and it’s only when Aziraphale bows to his own dancing partner that he realizes the whispered “dark lady” is actually Crowley in a burgundy kirtle and black veil over her hair, familiar glasses miracled to be unnoticed by humans. 

And she is dancing with Sir Galahad with a smirk on her lips that says she knows exactly what he’s meant to do and she has every intention of breaking him from that path. 

So Aziraphale decides to be rude, to break between the dancers and murmur, “I would like a dance with the temptress,” to Galahad. 

Galahad’s smile is broad and delighted. “Oh, she was hoping to see you.”

Crowley smirks, but she waits until Galahad has gone back to his father to say anything. “Really, angel. He’s barely a knight.”

“He’s to find the Grail, my dear.” Aziraphale takes his place beside her as the dance starts again. He is absolutely terrible at it, but Crowley doesn’t seem to mind, her skirts hiding that she is also terrible. “Quite the feather in your cap if you tempt him away.”

“Oh, no,” she says, and there’s just the hint of mischief in her smile, though this close he can still smell the leather of her armor, the oil she uses to keep it as quiet as possible. “My side thinks Parzival and his brother will find the Fisher King, but I am strictly formenting here, as I said.” She stumbles over through another step, left foot catching the right. “And dancing.”

They manage another few steps, but then he trods hard on her foot, but she only wrinkles her nose and nods towards a table. “Maybe we should sit. I don’t think other ladies can miracle away a broken foot, and I don’t fancy another dance with Galahad. Makes me feel like a letch just smiling at him, and he’s too damned polite to leave me undanced.”

Aziraphale shouldn’t be pleased at the implication that she was only dancing with Galahad because the boy’s dear heart, but he is just the same.

After they sit, she helps herself to a goblet of wine from the center of the table and pushes a dish of quail eggs towards Aziraphale. “I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned the Black Knight crashed their little party,” she says, voice teasing. 

“It’s not as if you’re going to harm anyone, my dear,” he replies, and he can feel Crowley watching him as he helps himself to the offered food. Quail eggs are not his favorite usually, but the kitchen here works wonders.

Crowley sips wine from their shared goblet, and Aziraphale feels rather sure that he’s gotten the quail eggs as a trade off. “I don’t suppose you thought any more about my proposal.”

He frowns. “Tell me that’s not why you’re here.”

She sighs. “I never said I wouldn’t tempt you, angel. Just not little Galahad over there.” She smiles then, and her hands look rougher than he remembers around the goblet, probably from practicing with a sword as the Black Knight. 

He hadn’t noticed while they danced, but then his own hands are frightful. He hasn’t missed the callouses and dryness that come from active duty as a soldier. For a moment, Aziraphale wonders what Crowley sees when she looks at him, if she catalogues the slight softness that’s starting to form from his tendency to eat or the way helping in the tilting yard makes his shoulders broader than usual.

Aziraphale breaks off that line of thought, because it’s purely vanity, and it’s unfair to assume things about Crowley, not as he knows Crowley’s feelings. 

“It’s too dangerous,” Aziraphale murmurs, because he can still remember the feel of Crowley’s love in his hand. 

And he can’t forget the fate that awaits Crowley if they’re caught. If he can feel it, another angel might know. He suspects that Heaven might take nearly as much of an issue towards demons that feel love as Hell, though their execution tactic would be less horrifying. 

“I wouldn’t let you get in any real trouble,” Crowley says, and she puts her hand over Aziraphale’s. 

He closes his eyes because he can’t look at her face, the openly honest expression. “Crowley, it’s—“

“I would keep you safe.” Now Crowley laces their fingers together, and it’s so bold, so unexpected that Aziraphale nearly jumps from his skin. 

“It’s safer this way—“

“I love you, Aziraphale,” Crowley whispers, so softly that she can barely be heard over the music and Gawain’s thunderous laughter. “I know you don’t feel the same, but believe I’d slaughter the legions rather than let anyone harm you.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, and he has a moment of weakness as she lifts their joined hands and presses the barest of kisses to Aziraphale’s knuckles. 

His eyes burn as he pushes his power into the demon, plucking away the memory of this evening, of their aborted dance. It’s harder than it should be to take his hand away and stand. 

“I’ll see you in the morrow,” he whispers, forcing himself to look into Crowley’s blank expression. “You had a jolly time dancing tonight but then decided to go home because I was unable to step away from the king.”

And he does go in the morning, to Crowley’s camp where she’s already in her armor and laughing with her little group of scoundrels. Her helmet is set aside so her hair gleams like autumn leaves in the dull morning light. 

She grins when she sees him, and before she even says anything, Aziraphale knows that he’s going to agree to her proposal if only to see her keep smiling.

* * *

He finds Crowley next in a Spanish gutter, smelling of wine and sick, his hair a knotted mess of red curls. He’s never seen Crowley this dishevelled, not since humans began to place value on how one dressed. If not for the finery of his linen shirt and the silk on his shoes, he’d look very much like any vagabond. 

Aziraphale miracles them into an inn, one that suddenly has a vacancy for both of them. There’s only one bed, but it hardly matters. He isn’t much for sleeping, and Crowley looks as if he might fall over again if Aziraphale doesn’t attempt to hold him up. 

He helps Crowley out of his ruined clothing, miracling up a flannel and a basin of water. Crowley’s glasses are cracked, and Aziraphale sets them aside carefully. 

“They congratulated me,” Crowley murmurs, licking chapped lips, his eyes red-rimmed. “They think I’m responsible for this.”

Aziraphale says nothing, because he is here to guide a priest towards mercy. He’s seen where the priest works, the cruel things they do to the Jewish prisoners they have. There is nothing to say, because of course Crowley isn’t responsible for that. Crowley may have imagination, but it leads itself towards mischief and pranks, like breaking a man’s heel as he screams at a scullery maid. 

Not the rack or flaying children. 

“You aren’t, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers, wiping Crowley’s face gently. There are tear tracks in the grime, and his heart aches. 

Crowley stops his hand, gripping hard at his wrist. “Thank you, Aziraphale,” he whispers, fiercely. His eyes are solid amber, serious. “I couldn’t--If you thought I did that...”

“I know your heart, Crowley.” Aziraphale lays one hand at the center of his bare chest, trying not to think too hard about his palm over the beating of Crowley’s heart under his palm. “I know you aren’t that cruel.”

Crowley puts his hand over Aziraphale’s, and Aziraphale knows he should pull back, guide Crowley to sleep. But he’s weak. He lets Crowley study his face. “You know my heart?” he whispers, and his voice has dropped, low and soft and feels like fur along Aziraphale’s skin. 

Aziraphale says nothing. 

“You know I’m in love with you?” Crowley whispers, and he shifts closer to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale doesn’t realize that he’s leaned closer, over the bed. He shouldn’t have, because Crowley’s lips brush over his, and Aziraphale can feel him trembling. He can’t push Crowley away, not now, not with his love overwhelming Aziraphale’s senses and the memory of it in his power as fresh as if it were yesterday. 

“Yes,” he murmurs, before giving into the sensations and kissing Crowley back, opening his mouth to taste the stale liquor on Crowley’s breath and the scrape of his unshaven jaw against Aziraphale’s skin. 

It’s a desperate, needy thing, Crowley softly whining into his mouth. He shakes when Aziraphale breaks the kiss, presses a kiss to his wet cheeks and then to his forehead. Aziraphale should be better than this, but he cannot help this moment of weakness, letting Crowley half collapse against him. 

“Sleep, Crowley,” he murmurs, just a hint of power in his words. He tucks Crowley between the blankets and presses another kiss against Crowley’s hair and then takes his hand. “We can talk in the morning.”

Crowley smiles. “Promise, angel?” His eyes begin to droop.

“Of course,” Aziraphale lies easily, because he knows what he must do. He watches Crowley drift off, rubbing his thumb over Crowley’s knuckles. 

He watches Crowley sleep until the sky begins to lighten, and only then does he dip into Crowley’s memories to take the kiss and the confession. He takes everything except Aziraphale finding him in the gutter, just the beginning of him washing grime from Crowley’s freckled skin. 

It would be smart to pay for the room and leave, but instead he goes to get a spot of breakfast for them to share, something to sop up the alcohol because they both forgot to miracle away.

Crowley’s smile when he comes back to the room, glasses miracled and back on his face, will haunt Aziraphale for centuries.

* * *

When he returns from Scotland, _Hamlet_ has become an overnight sensation, and Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. The play is nearly exactly as he remembers, the same ghosts and drama and poor Ophelia, but now he is elbow to elbow with humans who are crying over the tragedy of it all, of Hamlet’s impotent rage and madness. 

He wants to be thrilled, because this was so much more than he hoped for. He is so happy for William, of course, but at the same time, he knows the love that has been pushed into the miracle. He knows why Crowley made the play such a roaring success, and he finds that his heart is heavy at the idea of seeing Crowley, of even looking at him.

Even if he does not say the words, Aziraphale will know. The knowledge feels like a weight about his neck, knowing that Crowley cannot remember. That Crowley probably wouldn’t want to remember. 

So instead, he takes the coward’s way out. 

_C. - _

_Had a jolly time in Scotland. Popped in for that errand for you. Horses still awful. Perhaps we can catch a show sometime later, but I’m afraid I’m being called abroad for work. Enjoy the London weather for me._

_A._

Aziraphale miracles the note to find Crowley and settles in Prague for the next thirty years, leaving his favorite books behind in England as a form of punishment. 

Crowley doesn’t reply, not that Aziraphale expects him to.

* * *

Crowley stands with him at the docks as they wait for the ship to be loaded, both of them full of fine French wine and crepes. He still feels ridiculous in the borrowed clothes, though he has his suspicions about the parcel tucked under Crowley’s arm. The air is frigid, and even at the water’s edge, Aziraphale thinks he can still hear the cheering of the crowd as another poor soul loses their head. 

“Will you be staying?” he asks, watching the sailors as they roll barrels on board. Crowley arranged the transport, and Aziraphale hadn’t asked what sort of vessel it was. 

Now he wonders if he should. 

“Have to, unfortunately,” Crowley murmurs, and he seems distracted, constantly looking over his shoulder as if he expects someone of spying. “Commendation means I have to keep an eye on this mess, you know.”

Aziraphale winces, remembering Crowley in the Spanish gutter. He looks better here, impassive as they stand together. “I shouldn’t have assumed that you...” He waves a hand towards the town, towards the roaring crowd. 

“I’m a demon, angel. I suppose it’s natural to assume I had something to do with it,” Crowley drawls, and he doesn’t look at Aziraphale. “Certainly Home Office is pleased.”

“They don’t know you as well as I know you,” Aziraphale says boldly. 

Crowley smiles, and there is the faintest pink to his cheeks. 

They stay quiet as the sailors finish their work and then motion that they’re ready for Aziraphale. Crowley offers the package under his arm then. “I know you don’t want to be dressed like a revolutionary on English soil,” he says, and his smile is so sweet that Aziraphale wants to step off the boat and take him aside, tell him of all the memories that Aziraphale has removed. 

Release them so Crowley can remember the kiss. 

Instead, he stands at the rail as the ship pushes off from the docks. He waves to Crowley, calling, “Thank you,” over the screams of the gulls and the whipping of the wind. 

He pretends that the wind takes Crowley’s reply of “Of course, angel. I love you,” because he’s too far away to miracle the memory away from Crowley, and he cannot let Crowley know that he knows.

* * *

Aziraphale comes to the idea for the record after their fight, when he is incensed and terrified that Crowley means to kill himself. He opens the blank journal and sets a pen to the page, letting it write without his hand guiding the words. His memory doesn’t need flowery language to record each declaration. 

If he loses Crowley, he doesn’t want to lose these moments. He doesn’t want to let his own memory grow foggy, the way he does on some things. Six millennia is such a terribly long time. While he doesn’t mind that the agony of Oscar’s death has faded to an ache, losing the way Crowley smiled him over a goblet of wine or stricken way he asked for Aziraphale to take his love Golgotha? 

Aziraphale cannot handle losing those.

He has to keep it all. He doesn’t know how to keep Crowley from harming himself, but he knows that he can keep him alive in the memories. 

Aziraphale wonders if he didn’t take Crowley’s memories, if Crowley would still want the Holy Water. There’s no way to ask, to look his friend in the face and ask, “Is this because you’re in love with me?”

He’s never mentioned what Crowley called from the docks, and if Crowley wanted him to know, he’d have said in the time between. 

Instead, he’s said nothing, and things have been comfortable, easy. They drink together and feed the ducks, and no one makes declarations of feelings. 

Or well, Crowley doesn’t make declarations, because Aziraphale is rather sure that he’s not in love with Crowley. He’s felt the intensity of Crowley’s feelings; he can’t hold anything that incandescent inside himself. He has, after all, stolen Crowley’s memories. 

He watches the pen scratch out every memory and drinks and tries to ignore the wetness along his own face, the yawning emptiness inside that comes when he thinks of an eternity without Crowley.

* * *

Except, except, eighty years later, when he slides into the passenger side of Crowley’s car, he can’t breathe around the bright-hot feeling in his own chest. It’s so different from the love he held in his power millennia ago, but he knows what it is. It’s different because it’s his, because he is still a member of the Host. That means something - small perhaps - but something still, something that makes his love blaze hot while Crowley’s smoldered like a star. 

He cannot stop looking over at Crowley as he cradles the books in his lap. He cannot believe that Crowley can’t know. He’s sure that he’s absolutely glowing with love, sparkling even, and yet Crowley stares ahead toward the empty streets as he drives Aziraphale back to his shop. 

Aziraphale wants to ask, “Where have you been” or “How did you know” but his tongue is thick against the roof of his mouth. All he can do is stare and wait for Crowley to comment on the feelings rolling off Aziraphale. 

Except when Crowley stops the car, he turns off the engine and sighs, leaning back in his seat. “You’re quiet,” he murmurs. 

Aziraphale swallows, throat dry. “You came to help me,” he murmurs, because what else can he say. 

Crowley sighs and rubs his eyes under his glasses. “Of course. You’re... I couldn’t let anything bad happen to you, angel. What if they sent someone else that I didn’t like? What if it was Michael again?” 

He licks his lips, and he grips the case hard so he cannot reach out and take Crowley’s hand. “Crowley,” he says, desperately, because the love feels like it’s pulsing under his skin, and his eyes burn. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, and now he takes off his glasses, yellow eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. “Are you all right?”

He reaches out and presses his hand to the side of Crowley’s face, thumb pressed to the snake mark. It would be so easy to kiss him, here in the dark, and then perhaps he could try to make them both forget. 

Instead he whispers, “You can’t feel that?”

Crowley doesn’t pull away from his touch, almost seems to lean into it. “Feel what, angel?” His eyes flick to Aziraphale’s lips, and he knows that Crowley will kiss him. 

And he wants Crowley to kiss him. 

So he takes his hand away, puts both hands on the case of books. He’s choking on his feelings, and Crowley is just watching him like he always does, with his own love clearly on display. If Aziraphale closes his eyes, he can see their love reaching for each other, trying to hard to connect. 

It makes him open the door to the car. “Don’t be a stranger, my dear,” he says, whispers around the pain in his chest. 

Crowley stares at him as he goes into the store. He stands with his back to the door, because he will not watch through the windows as Crowley looks after him. He cannot invite Crowley inside at all, because he is not strong enough to keep from touching Crowley, from kissing him. 

He’s aware of the pen and journal scraping out this evening as he miracles the locks. His heart pounds as the Bentley’s engine turns over and pulls away from the front of the shop. 

Aziraphale puts the books on his counter, trying to force his heart to quiet. 

Except the back door to the shop bangs open, and Crowley strides through the back room. His hat is gone, glasses still off, and Aziraphale should turn him away, remind him about the dangers, take his memory. 

Instead he meets Crowley half-way, hand wrapped around Crowley’s tie as their mouths crash together. It’s Crowley’s hand in his hair now, Crowley walking him back towards one of the bookshelves. Crowley’s love burns against his skin, and he feels himself vibrate with it, suddenly desperate to touch more of Crowley. 

One of them burns a miracle to knock their coats aside, and he is rather sure he is the one who opens Crowley’s shirt, exposing his vest with the black tie askew. His own bowtie is gone and Crowley’s fingers are fiddling with the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. It’s too much, too fast, and he struggles to remember why this is such a risk now that he can turn his head and press a kiss to Crowley’s fluttering pulsepoint.

“I love you,” Crowley whispers, and Aziraphale can feel the words as he kisses along Crowley’s throat, to the undone collar of his shirt. 

The words should make Aziraphale catch aflame, but instead they make him freeze, because he knows what he has to do. He should do it now; if he keeps kissing Crowley, it will only become harder. He’ll want more than either of them can risk, more than just the soft brush of Crowley’s mouth along his brow bone. 

Aziraphale can still hear the pen working, recording this memory that he’s going to have to take, and he cannot help the way his eyes begin to burn again. “Crowley, you can’t,” he whispers. “It’s not safe.”

Crowley sighs, and he pushes their foreheads together. “Tell me you love me, too, angel, before you take the memory. Please.” His voice breaks on the last word. “I just want to hear it.”

Aziraphale has to pull away, clicking light into being so he can see Crowley clearly. He’s deliciously rumpled, but there’s nothing to be done for it now. Not when Crowley... “You know?”

His smile is sad, and he reaches out to draw a thumb along Aziraphale’s cheek. “I’ve gaps in my memory, angel. I drink a lot, but rarely enough that I forget entire evenings, entire conversations.” 

Aziraphale winces, and he pulls away again. “I’m so sorry.” The apology is so small, so simple, compared to the enormity of what he’s done, but he doesn’t want to try and quibble, not with Crowley touching him.

“I’ve had my time to be angry.” Crowley sighs, and he pulls away, arms crossed over his chest. He pulls his glasses out and puts them on but leaves his shirt undone, hair mussed. “Anger is safer than love, anyway.”

“You told me that they’d murder you, if they knew,” Aziraphale murmurs, and he tries not to be distracted by the way Crowley looks, so deliciously rumpled. He should move them to the back room, but he still wants to touch Crowley. 

Crowley nods. “They would. Slowly and painfully, most likely.”

Aziraphale sighs, and he begins to adjust Crowley’s collar, if only to keep himself from staring. “I couldn’t bear you being hurt on my account.”

Crowley puts his hands over Aziraphale’s, squeezing. “I know,” he murmurs, and he looks at him over his glasses, so Aziraphale can see the emotion in his eyes. “Please, take the memory, angel, but say it first.”

“I’ve only just realized,” Aziraphale whispers. “Could you feel it before I could.”

“I can’t feel love like that, not anymore.” Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s hands before he releases them. “But I can feel how much you desire me.”

He leans close then, smile absolutely devious. “And if you didn’t love me at least a little bit, why would you take the memories?”

“Wily old serpent,” Aziraphale whispers, and then he kisses Crowley again, pouring what he’s afraid to say into it, curling his body against Crowley’s. 

Crowley holds him, and he’s aware that they’re both in tears as they break apart, that Crowley is shaking against him. “Please,” he whispers. 

And Aziraphale is terrible at denying Crowley, even when it’s too much of a risk. If any of this memory lingers, he knows that Crowley will put himself in danger again. “I love you,” he whispers, and he forces himself to smile. “Anthony J. Crowley.”

Crowley laughs, and it’s a wet sound, no joy. He steals one more chaste kiss before pulling away, snapping his fingers so they both look put together, not a hair out of place. “Do it now, before I change my mind.”

Aziraphale wipes his eyes and opens his power.

* * *

The rumor comes to him through two almost-patrons, a young couple who dash into his shop in the middle of a rainstorm. He watches them from over the top of his book, but they look far too pale and bothered to be here for shopping. 

The taller woman is shaking her head. “You can’t,” she hisses, taking something from her partner’s hands. Her nailpolish is chipped, and she looks exhausted, the large coat she wears unable to hide the gauntness of her frame. It may be fashion, but Aziraphale is unsure. 

Her partner holds up a grubby and crumpled piece of paper. “If this is who I think it is, we could go anywhere. You could quit,” she says. Rainwater has ruined her hairdo, but there’s a desperateness to her eyes that makes Aziraphale want to turn away. Suddenly he feels like he knows these young women in a way that is far too familiar. 

“It’s not worth it if you get banged up,” the taller woman hisses. “I can’t lose you.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Let me do this.”

Aziraphale cannot eavesdrop anymore. Instead he approaches with miracled fluffy towels and a tray for tea. “I’m afraid we’re in for it, my dears,” he says, putting effort into appearing harmless, almost paternal. 

He’s not unaware of what humans assume about him, and considering his feelings for Crowley, he supposes they aren’t all untrue. Still, it is useful, particularly when the two young women glance at each other and the smaller one, brunette with a steely resolve in her eyes, steps forward to take a towel.

She drapes it over her lover, glaring at Aziraphale as she does it, and he smiles blandly. “There’s a couch over here,” he says instead of commenting, because far be it for him to comment on their relationship. “Careful not to spill, and you can stay until the storm passes.”

Biscuits appear on the table nearest to the chesterfield, and he quickly flips the sign from “open” to “closed.” He will go to the backroom to let them have their discussion, but they deserve privacy for it. 

He plans to, anyway, until he gets a better glimpse at the advert hanging from the brunette’s pocket. The ink has run, but the stilted penmanship is unmistakable, as if the hand holding the pen was still unsure what it was meant to do with fingers and weren’t things just so much easier when there was no writing or walking or need for fingers at all?

He miracles it away as he goes into the backroom. On the face, it seems rather banal _Local man requires local workers, skilled in careful entrances. Atheism not required but preferred_, but Aziraphale has never forgotten the way Crowley looked at Holy Water in the font in the church, the horror in his own heart when the bomb fell on them. He’d spared just one more miracle to move the font away, somewhere that it couldn’t vaporize or splash onto Crowley, anything to keep him safe. 

“Oh, Crowley, no,” he murmured, miracling the paper back to the young women. 

He doesn’t know what else to do. Humans couldn’t understand how dangerous the water would be to Crowley, how just the smallest drop on the canteen could burn into his palm. What would he do if they saw him begin to smoke, his skin bubbling away from his bones? They’d see everything, and there was no way he’d be able to keep them from noticing in that much pain. 

Aziraphale doesn’t know what else to do _but_ go to Heaven, to the coldly elegant fountain that gleams in the reception area. He fills a thermos, aware of how wet his own hands were, how much work it took to make sure the thermos was entirely sealed, a strong miracle to keep it from leaking. No human would take this much effort to make sure everything was dry and safe.

As he dries it, he thinks of Crowley’s mouth against him, the way he smiled when Aziraphale took the most recent memory. He knew what was happening, and yet he didn’t fight it. He trusted Aziraphale. 

And now Aziraphale will have to trust him. 

He presses a kiss to the thermos before he added travel cap. “Please don’t tempt him,” he whispers.

Time seems to speed up, the days he has until Crowley meets with his partners in crime bleeding into hours and then minutes. Aziraphale miracles himself into Crowley’s car, gripping tight at the thermos because he cannot believe he means to do this.

Even the soft way Crowley murmurs, “After everything you said,” can’t keep the dread from eating at him. 

He cannot take the thermos away. He has to trust Crowley. 

And he absolutely cannot plead _Please let me keep you safe. I love you_ because Crowley must remember. He has to know that he has the Holy Water and where it came from. He cannot let go on with this robbery. 

So instead he whispers. “You go too fast for me, Crowley,” and he has to hope that it’s enough, that Crowley can hear the emotion in his words.

* * *

When the world begins to end, even Crowley is sufficiently cowed out of confessing his love. Aziraphale can feel his love in every secret meeting they hold, and he can tell from time to time when Crowley knows his desire, particularly when he forgets to remove the lipstick of his nanny disguise and grins at Aziraphale from across a diner table, lips dark and inviting. 

Aziraphale wants desperately to see if Crowley is keeping the makeup from leaving a mark on his coffee mug by miracle or if it is just expensive. He wants to run his thumb through it, and the demon is absolutely smug in the knowledge. 

He says nothing, and Crowley doesn’t push it, but there is absolutely no reason that he “forgets” to take off the makeup when he so thoroughly leaves the rest of the uniform behind, tweed skirts left off for jeans that cling to Crowley’s legs and a waistcoat that emphasizes both how slim he is and the breadth of his shoulders. 

Of course, Aziraphale can’t comment on it without admitting it, just as he cannot admit that he knows Crowley knows that his memories have been altered. Which, of course, Crowley cannot ever bring up.

So Aziraphale made more noise at enjoying his food than was strictly necessary and hoped that was enough payback.

* * *

“There is no ‘our side’ anymore, Crowley. Not anymore. It’s over.”

He barely hears what Crowley says in response. It would have been too easy to take Crowley’s offer, to go out amongst the stars and leave this all behind them. He has no doubt that eventually, _eventually_ they would be found. Heaven would have destroyed Crowley quickly, because Heaven will win, more as a punishment to Aziraphale than as a way of dealing with Crowley himself. 

They’ll kill Crowley, and Aziraphale is a terrible angel because he’s too selfish to risk having the happiness of being with Crowley and then losing it. He doesn’t doubt that Heaven would want to make an example of him for his cowardice, and in those weeks or perhaps months before they executed him, he’d know what it was like to hold Crowley, to have their love openly. 

Aziraphale is not strong enough for that. He watches Crowley walk away, and he almost wants to call him back, to whisper, “I love you. You must trust me.” But he knows that if he does that, Crowley will probably still forgive him. 

And he doesn’t want to be forgiven in this moment, not when he is so close. He knows if he can just reach the Almighty, if he can make Her see that there is no reason for all this nonsense, it will be all right. Things will go back to normal.

Perhaps even better than normal. Perhaps with the Plan postponed or cancelled, their respective offices wouldn’t linger at the edges of their lives. Perhaps he would be able to walk through St. James’s Park with Crowley’s hand tucked into his arm. Perhaps Crowley would be able to pull out Aziraphale’s chair for him at the Ritz, bowing a little just to make Aziraphale laugh. 

Perhaps he could hand over the journal of memories and beg Crowley’s absolute forgiveness, for his cowardice. 

Crowley disappears from the park and then Aziraphale does say it, whispering, “I love you. Please forgive me,” and it’s only the pigeons that hear.

* * *

And then he’s discorporated. The book that was meant to hold all the memories that he’d taken burns. Crowley mourns him into bottles of scotch. He possesses a receptive body, and then the Antichrist saves the world. 

They do nothing but sign off on some paperwork. 

He and Crowley save each other, as they always have wanted. Crowley stares down the angels of Heaven while Aziraphale sneers at what remains of the dukes and lords of Hell. Neither of them are particularly impressed.

They switch back. They have a long lunch at the Ritz with champagne and three courses. 

Then they return to the book shop.

* * *

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say when they get to the shop. He is torn between watching Crowley and checking every nook and cranny of the shop. Adam spared him the horror of seeing everything burned, but it’s enough that he _knows_ it burned. He knows that Crowley came into the building and assumed him truly gone.

He’s not expecting Crowley to pull a book out from the couch cushions as he flops down, wine bottles and glasses suddenly appearing on the table as Aziraphale lowers himself into his chair. “Found this, when I was wandering around. By the books Adam added.”

The cover is a fake, one Aziraphale decided was necessary in 1943. It reads _Diseases of the 13th and 14th Century_. He didn’t know if such a book existed when he miracled up the image for the front, a half-remembered picture from an illuminated manuscript and the rod of Asclepius. It looks incredibly old and incredibly dull, and it ss exactly the sort of book that Crowley would never pick up to read. 

He hates epidemics. He hates the 14th century, and in all honesty, he’d not been terribly keen on the century before that.

“I don’t think I left that over there,” he murmurs. He had the book tucked in with his Wilde first editions, because he knows Crowley isn’t particularly fond of Wilde either. 

Crowley sets the book on the table and then pours them both a glass of wine, a wonderfully dark red that Aziraphale doesn’t remember owning before the Apocalypse. He cannot take the wine, staring at the book as if he expects it to begin to sing and dance. 

“I haven’t read beyond the first page,” Crowley says. “Probably wouldn’t have read any of it if Adam hadn’t made it sit out in the open.” He takes off his glasses as he picks up his wine glass. 

His nose wrinkles after the first sip, and then he puts the wine aside. “You wrote down the memories,” Crowley says, tone soft. 

“After the Fight,” Aziraphale replies, pulling his hands into his lap so he won’t fidget. “I thought--I feared that you were going to destroy yourself,” he whispers. 

Crowley picks the book up again, his fingers drumming against the cover. “I only wanted protection, angel. Even if we didn’t have the Arrangement, you knew I felt love. You knew I was _in_ love.”

Aziraphale will not let himself look away. “And I knew how dangerous it was. I assumed--You’ve always been so reckless, Crowley. You’ve been confessing yourself for almost 5,000 years.”

He watches Crowley’s eyes widen, and then he opens the book. He flips past the first few pages, mostly faff that Aziraphale had filled with his own anxieties just after the fight. Aziraphale can tell the moment that he finds the first bit, from the Ark. “Aziraphale,” he murmurs, leaning forward. 

“I reacted badly. I should have put the memory back as soon as I took it, but I was too afraid.” Aziraphale smoothes his hands along the fabric of his trousers, as if there are troubling wrinkles. “I worried what they would do to you, which is no real excuse--”

Crowley says nothing in response, reading in earnest now. His mouth moves along the terrible prose Aziraphale wrote, as if his words could lend life to a memory. He’s no human, and he’s never been a creator, not like Crowley with his nebulae and galaxies. 

So instead he rambles. “I knew that you said it during the Reign of Terror, and I didn’t know what to do with that knowledge. I was so sure that you knew I heard--”

“I did, angel,” Crowley murmurs, closing the book and then holding it out to Aziraphale. “You went pale on the ship. I had my suspicions about the gaps in my memory before that, but I thought maybe I was doing it to myself. Then you winced.”

Aziraphale takes the book with trembling fingers. “You never mentioned...”

“I needed you to know how I felt, angel. And then I knew that you knew.” Crowley’s smile is sad, almost pained. He looks smaller somehow, pulled into himself. “I knew you couldn’t feel the same, but I needed--”

“What?” Aziraphale stands, journal clattering to the floor, because he’d assumed that Crowley suspected... But then love and desire at different, and he’s a fool. “You think I don’t... Crowley.”

Crowley spreads his hands and shrugs helplessly. “I know you care for me, Aziraphale. You wouldn’t take my memories if you didn’t. You’re too damned protective over the things you consider yours.” His eyes shine in a way that has nothing to do with the low light, smile humourless. 

He gets up from the chair to sit beside Crowley. “I protect things I love, Crowley.” Aziraphale carefully touches the back of Crowley’s right hand, and he hates that Crowley draws it close to his chest, as if the touch burns. “And the human-shaped beings that I love.”

Crowley shakes his head, as if he cannot bear to hear it. “You said we weren’t friends, but you know that we are.” 

Aziraphale had known that would cut into Crowley but perhaps he hadn’t calculated how deep it would be, how terrible it would feel. He’d been so caught up in trying to stop the end of the world. Their fight had been horrible, but it was rather like the ceiling falling in while the floor was giving way and all your windows were shattering: terrible but easily lost among everything else going wrong.

But he’d never thought for a moment that Crowley had been discorporated, and Crowley hadn’t had that luxury. 

“I shouldn’t have said that. I more than like you, Crowley.” He takes a steadying breath, because he owes Crowley this. Aziraphale owes him more than he can ever manage in an immortal lifetime, but he can at least start here.

Aziraphale opens the journal to the pages that hold his memory from the war, and the prose is as stilted and bland as he remembers. “I could read this to you, my dear, but you know I’m no writer. It wouldn’t compare.” His eyes burn again. “I never should have started to take your memories. I wish you could just have them back.”

Crowley makes the effort to blink at him, clearly wary, and Aziraphale soldiers on.

“I love you, my dearest darling. I have loved you for longer than I was willing to allow myself to acknowledge, and even if you leave this shop now and never speak to me again, I will not stop loving you.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, blinking again, but this time because his eyes are glassy. Tears usually do that to him. 

“I will keep telling you how you told me over and over again, until you’re sick of hearing me say it,” Aziraphale whispers. “Until my memories seem like they happened to you.”

Crowley stares hard at the journal between them, throat working. He tries to speak and stutters, looking at Aziraphale and then back to the pages. Very deliberately, he flexes his fingers and then lays that hand over the tidy scrawl of Aziraphale’s handwriting. “I want to try something,” he says, quietly. “Can you picture me taking the memories back?”

Aziraphale cocks his head to the side. “I don’t see--”

“Sh,” Crowley murmurs, pressing the fingers of his other hand to Aziraphale’s lips. Crowley’s touch seems to burn before he moves his hand away. “Just try.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes, because imagination isn’t exactly his strong suit. He can picture the setting in a book, though, and believe that a play is truly happening. For Crowley, he will absolutely try. 

He feels the prickle of his own power and then Crowley’s, and when he risks taking a peek, he sees the words from his journal drifting along Crowley’s skin, under the cuffs of his jacket. It seems needlessly dramatic, very much Crowley’s imagination rather than his own, but he wills it to work, desperate to have his words take the form of stolen kisses, of knowing what it feels like to have their hands in each other’s hair. 

And then Crowley opens his eyes as well. He says nothing. 

“It didn’t work,” Aziraphale says softly, and he puts the journal aside to take both of Crowley’s hands into his. “It doesn’t matter. I remember. I remember, and I will tell you everything.”

Crowley licks his lips, still quiet. 

“I love you, too, Crowley, and I will say it for the rest of eternity if you’ll only let--”

He is cut off by Crowley surging forward and kissing him, clambering into Aziraphale’s lap. He’s shaking when Aziraphale slides one hand under his jacket, to settle one hand at the small of Crowley’s back. Crowley is hot in his arms, burning, and his skin smells vaguely of Hell still, damp and Hellfire all in one, but Aziraphale doesn’t care. 

Rather he keeps kissing Crowley, hands bracing at the backs of Crowley’s thighs to hold him close. He’s aware vaguely that they are both hard, but he doesn’t particularly feel much like addressing it yet. It seems more important to run his tongue along Crowley’s to taste the terrible wine and to sneak one hand under Crowley’s shirt and the vest he himself had chosen for Hell to touch bare skin. 

Crowley is also the one to break the kiss, drawing Aziraphale’s bottom lip between his teeth as he pulls away. “I can’t believe... Six thousand years, and you’ve known.” He doesn’t sound angry, though Aziraphale feels that he should be.

If the shoe were on the other foot, Aziraphale would be furious. 

Instead Crowley skims his hands along Aziraphale’s shoulders, pushing down his jacket to trap his arms. “Say it again,” he whispers, kissing along Aziraphale’s neck. 

Aziraphale chuckles. “That I love you?”

Crowley nuzzles Aziraphale’s brow. “I knew that you took my memories of confessing, but I never dreamed... You love me.”

“How could I not, Crowley?” Aziraphale doesn’t bother trying to shrug from his jacket, instead keeping his eyes steady on Crowley’s. “You saved as many children as you could. You hated Rome. You saved my books.”

“When you say it like that, I sound bloody awful,” Crowley murmurs, cupping the side of Aziraphale’s jaw, thumb against his lips. 

Aziraphale turns enough to kiss the heel of Crowley’s hand. “For an ordinary demon, maybe, but you’ve never been ordinary, my dear. You are the creator of original sin after all.” He grins at Crowley. 

“I just told them maybe they should eat an apple.” Crowley’s cheeks turn a fetching shade of pink, and that makes him look away. “Hardly created anything.”

Aziraphale miracles away his coat to slide his hands into Crowley’s hair. “And modest. Bloody awful demon.” His tone is teasing at he nips at Crowley’s lips. “But I love you just the same.”

The next kiss is terrible, both of them smiling too much, but Aziraphale doesn’t care. It’s worth it to have Crowley warm in his lap. It’s even better when Crowley carefully undoes Aziraphale’s bowtie and shirt collar, so he can kiss and nuzzle the skin there. He’s not unfamiliar to the feel of arousal bubbling under his skin, but for the first time, he doesn’t ignore it, miracling away their shoes and then Crowley’s own coat. 

“Eager, angel?” Crowley murmurs, and the words vibrate through Aziraphale, striking at the core of him. If he closes his eyes, he knows he will be able to see their love reaching to each other and he finds he very much wants to see what happens when they meld, the colors and brightness that will result. 

“You once told me you can feel desire, Crowley,” he murmurs, tightening his hold in Crowley’s hair to direct his mouth. “You tell me.”

Crowley makes a sound that is both a growl and a sob but neither, and they are both suddenly quite naked, the couch large enough that they both fit comfortably as Crowley pushes them down. 

“It burns, you know,” Crowley murmurs, and now his teeth scrape over Aziraphale’s jaw as he presses the lean lines of his body entirely against Aziraphale’s. “Holy-ly. I’ve felt it before, but this close, it’s like the bloody sun, and I want to feel it under my skin.”

Aziraphale should push Crowley away, because that seems like something they should talk about, but Crowley’s using just enough power to keep Aziraphale on his back. He could sit up if he really wanted to, but he also trusts Crowley, knows that if anything were too much for him, he would actually pull away. 

“Sounds dangerous,” he says instead, breathless as Crowley wraps a hand around his cock, tugging lightly. 

Crowley laughs, and Aziraphale feels him change the effort between them, Crowley’s cock hot against his hip one moment and then gone. Efficient trick, that. Aziraphale finds he doesn’t much care so long as Crowley keeps kissing him, keeps talking. “You know I used to dream about this, when I slept after the fight.”

“This exact scenario?” He doesn’t quite understand how he’s able to sound so calm as Crowley moves over him, one hand keeping Aziraphale’s cock just as he wants it as he lowers himself down, taking Aziraphale into himself. 

“A few scenarios but don’t much feel like taking the time for them.” Crowley begins to move, rolling his hips in that perfectly sinful way of his, and Aziraphale reaches down between them, to feel where his body is sliding into Crowley’s, the pulse of Crowley’s cunt around him. 

He puts his other hand around Crowley’s hip and casually breaks the demon’s hold on him, because he will not lay back for this, not with the feel of Crowley’s love brushing against his own. As he closes his eyes, the entire room seems to explode in light, and he can feel the beating of Crowley’s heart inside himself even as his body is inside Crowley’s. 

“Angel,” Crowley murmurs, voice shaky with need, and it is a heady thing, to know that touching Crowley, teasing the idea of pushing a finger into Crowley along side his cock, has been enough to break down Crowley’s careful exterior of flash. 

“Touch yourself, darling,” Aziraphale whispers, and he opens his eyes because for as dazzling the feel of love can be, the way Crowley looks with his chest flushed, gleaming in sweat is so much more. He calls light into the room, so he will not miss a moment, and then does as he teased, the feel of Crowley that much tighter. 

Crowley whines, hips stuttering, the knuckles of his hand brushing against Aziraphale’s skin as he brings himself closer. Aziraphale watches, aware of the need building inside himself, but more focused on Crowley, on the way Crowley moves and sounds, the freckles across his collar bones. 

He sits up to kiss at Crowley’s sweat-slick skin, holding Crowley’s body to his. His mouth leaves darker red marks against Crowley’s already flushed skin. For a brief moment, he looks at their love again, the brightness overwhelming even to an angel, and it is impossible to tell where his begins and Crowley’s ends. Crowley breathes through his teeth, whimpering and gasping, and Aziraphale could listen to it forever and yet knows he can’t be that cruel to his demon. 

“Come, darling,” he whispers against Crowley’s neck. “Let yourself go.”

And Crowley does with a cry, half collapsing against Aziraphale, and Aziraphale lets himself follow, withdrawing his finger to gather Crowley close as he spends inside him, face buried against Crowley’s shoulder. 

He relaxes back against the couch, bringing Crowley down with him. The light in the room dims as the couch seems to right itself again. In its non-miracled size, it is more than a little too small for them to lie like this, Crowley’s head against Aziraphale’s shoulder, Aziraphale’s arms still around Crowley, but he doesn’t mind. He could spend the next century just stroking Crowley’s back and listening to Crowley breathe. 

The grandfather clock in the shop chimes loudly, announcing the turn of the hour, and only then does Crowley even attempt to sit up, so he can meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Not going to try to take that memory, I hope,” he says, and Aziraphale hates that despite the teasing, there is a question in Crowley’s voice, a slight flinching around his eyes. 

“Why would I, my love?” Aziraphale draws Crowley’s left hand towards him, so he may press a kiss into his palm. “We’re on our own side, now, and our side celebrates love rather than fearing it.”

And while Aziraphale doesn’t need the memory journal anymore, he thinks perhaps he should try and use it again, if only to memorialize the way Crowley smiles at him.


End file.
